


The Right Person

by deathtosanepeople



Category: Pride and Prejudice (2005), Pride and Prejudice - Jane Austen
Genre: Canon Related, Darcy is bad at them, F/M, Feelings, Ficlet, Love/Hate, Missing Scene, Vignette
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-09
Updated: 2016-05-09
Packaged: 2018-06-07 08:48:40
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,546
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6797254
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/deathtosanepeople/pseuds/deathtosanepeople
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Elizabeth takes a moment to escape Bingley's ball, her family's actions causing her great shame. She doesn't expect to gain the company of a particularly asinine gentleman.</p><p>OR what would have happened if Darcy had come upon Elizabeth (in the Pride & Prejudice movie) while she was hiding away</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Right Person

**Author's Note:**

  * For [erinns](https://archiveofourown.org/users/erinns/gifts).



> This was written in a style inspired by Jane Austen's writing, so please excuse the somewhat complex words and phrasing utilized in order to avoid modern day cliches
> 
> Also, a big thank you to my best friend erinns for her continual encouragement and support. I doubt I would write at all if not for your faith in me, my friend.

Elizabeth sighs heavily. What was going to be a splendid evening had been turned into a disaster. Her entire family, excepting Jane and possibly her Father, had managed, in one way or another, to make utter spectacles of themselves. 

She had practically felt Caroline’s seething glare across the room, as she stood proudly next to Mr. Darcy. Elizabeth rarely sees her anywhere but hovering at his side, like a bee drawn to a flower. 

To her shame, she had hastened to hide herself in a quiet alcove, away from all the noise. She felt as though everyone in the room had been staring at her. Laughing silently at her family’s faults, mocking her staunch pride. What right had she to pride, when her relations were so humiliating? 

She turns her head to the side, shame burning in her cheeks. 

A soft step approaches, and she hastens to blink back the tears that had been threatening. 

“Ms. Elizabeth,” says the man, surprise evident in his tone. 

Her cheeks burn hotter. The voice is unmistakeable, unlike any man’s she’s heard before. Soft, cultured, almost gentle, if not for its stilted pitches when the tone descends into uncertainty. And yet, in the height of emotion, she knows it can drop into a fiercer version of itself, steady and commanding. 

The voice is uncertain now, her name peppered with breathy dips. 

She readies her own voice, loathe to let him know how close she had been to coming undone. 

“Mr. Darcy.” There, that was smooth, barely a shudder. “Have you come to continue Caroline’s disapproval in person?”

He blinks rapidly. “I beg your pardon?”

“Please, spare me your denial. You could not very well be oblivious to the scowls she was directing my way. She was positioned at your side, as she usually is.”

“I must plead ignorance, Ms. Elizabeth. I was not observing where she was directing her gazes, nor was I observing her. I had not a clue she was thus engaging her sight.”

She raises her eyes from where they had been firmly fixed upon the floor. Darcy’s hands are clasped behind his back, his gaze steady, his countenance anchored in a single blank expression. The only evidentiary of his nervousness is the intermittent dip of his adam’s apple underneath his cravat. 

Her lips part slightly with amusement. Perhaps he is telling the truth, but he looks far too uncomfortable to be a man secure in the assuredness of candor. Then again, he is a man who never looks at ease. Stiff and rigid, inflexible in body, and apparently, in mind as well. Very inconvenient for trying to ascertain honesty. “If you haven’t come to gloat, why have you come, Mr. Darcy?”

“I must beg your pardon again, I had not know that you were here. I merely came to sequester myself away from the crowd for awhile.” 

His eyes flicker to hers, then flicker down again, his next sentence produced as if it is a secret that shames him. “I very easily tire of interaction with others. Wit and banter are beyond my capacity, and small talk rails against my disposition. Communication has never been my forte, and extensive participation in it… drains me.”

She is struck by how much he looks like a child after his admission, head bowed, eyes downcast and chary. As if frightened that she will scold him. 

She doesn’t know what makes her offer him consolation, can’t comprehend why she bothers to commiserate, but nonetheless she does. 

“I too, feel the need to escape the concerns, demands, and desires of others. One can quickly become exhausted by such things if not given ample opportunity to regain vitality in the mind by quiet introspection and absorption of the calm of solitude.”

Surprise travels through his steady visage, his sensitive blue eyes widened in wonder. 

This time it is she who ducks her head, ignoring the frisson of pleasure tickling at the back of her neck. She likes him looking at her in such a manner, as if she is remarkable, as if what she has to say holds great value to him. 

Seconds tick by, and after a minute’s hesitation, Darcy moves to stand next to her against the wall. 

She knows not how long they stand in silence, the noise of the ball waning and intensifying like the waves of the sea around them, but internally she feels herself settle. There’s an amiable comfort in her silent partner, an assuredness in the solidity of the tall, broad man next to her. 

She glances over at him periodically, noting that his outward tranquility matches her own. He appears to be almost asleep, chin tucked into his chest, eyes shut, lashes fanning over his cheeks. The only attestation to the contrary is the continual twitching of his right hand. 

She has nearly dozed off herself when his voice draws her back to alertness. 

It’s unsteady again, cautious in its murmured phrases. 

“Do you think, perhaps, that the vitality of the mind aforementioned, could yet be gained in another’s presence? If…” he hesitates, searching for the correct phrasing, ardently adverse to mishandling this particular question. “If it was the right person, someone you trusted without reservation, someone who made you feel at peace with yourself, who understood you, and you them, could that vitality be regained without the need of isolation?”

When she looks over at him his eyes are still tightly shuttered, his previously twitching hand now balled into a tight fist. Again, she is reminded of a child fearing rebuke. Perhaps a stern father had instilled such trepidation in him. It would certainly lend better understanding to Darcy’s character.

His hand is nearly shaking with the effort to remain still, and she feels that if she doesn’t answer soon he will flee from her, flee from this moment. And strangely, she finds she doesn’t want it to end so quickly. 

She reaches out, barely brushing his knuckles with the tips of her fingers. His chest inflates with an abrupt inhalation, his brows furrowed in concentration, attempting to be as still as possible against his bodies protestations. 

“Yes,” she says softly, leaning her head back against the wall and drawing her hand with her. “I do think that’s possible.”

The breath he’d been holding shudders out stutteringly, and it is many minutes before his breathing returns to normal. 

She never does ask him why he posed that question, too afraid of what his answer might be, too afraid of her reaction if his answer is in accordance with her assumptions. 

By the time she rouses enough courage to consider even the thought of asking him, Charlotte arrives to retrieve her from her hiding place, excitedly exclaiming about some hilarious mishap. 

She stops in utter stupefaction at the sight of the silent and still Mr. Darcy, turning a questioning gaze onto Lizzie. 

Elizabeth shakes her head, conveying with her eyes that she will explain later. 

She lets Charlotte draw her out of her haven, the bright lights immediately disorienting after so long in the near darkness. Her last glance at Mr. Darcy is emblazoned on her sight, floating against the backdrop of glaring brilliance. 

The longing in his gaze had punctured straight through to her core, his usually mild eyes blazing with intensity. The tension between them seemed to draw her back to him, the further she stepped away, the tighter it became, taut like a bowstring before release. 

Her hate is all mixed up with his longing, her dislike drowning in his desire. She cannot deny the draw of his presence, nor the excitement she feels when near him. She had attributed it to the enjoyment of the witty repartee she employed to goad him, but now, now, she’s not convicted by that justification. 

She has no more time to dwell on it, however, for Mr. Collins has drawn near once more to engage her attention and request another dance. 

As he leads her into the ballroom, she finds herself throwing one last gaze over her shoulder, searching for Darcy’s subtly imposing figure, hoping perhaps he will step in to save her from this torture. 

Her roving inspection is fruitless however, and she wonders at the disappointment blooming in her chest. How easy would it be to blame it on the unsavoriness of Mr. Collins entirety, but she knows the feeling to be far beyond such a simple explanation. 

His question echoes in her thoughts. “If it was the right person… could that vitality be regained without the need of isolation?”

She had replied without much consideration, desirous of regaining their previous easy quiet. But now, with the nearly incoherent babbling of Mr. Collins nonsense assaulting her countenance, she reviews the question with a clarity not available before, and finds her answer the same, strengthened even. 

Yes, she finds that she does think, provided the right company, that it is possible to enjoy solitude without ever being alone. She need look no further for proof than herself, for while Mr. Collins bombards her with all manner of idiocy, and her body moves the rote motions of a familiar dance, her mind rests quietly in that alcove with him, the memory giving her tranquility amongst the noise and the movement. 

She feels at peace.


End file.
